Spinach and champagne. Going back to the kitchens at the old Waldorf. Dancing on the kitchen tables, wearing the chef's headgear. Finally, a crash and being escorted out by the house detectives.

Life has puffed and blown itself into a summer day, and clouds and spring billow over the heavens as if calendars were a listing of mathematical errors.

Love is bitter and all there is, and that the rest is for the emotional beggars of the earth.

I am really only myself when I'm somebody else whom I have endowed with these wonderful qualities from my imagination.

I don't want to live. I want to love first, and live incidentally.

Women, despite the fact that nine out of ten of them go through life with a death-bed air either of snatching-the-last-moment or with martyr-resignation, do not die tomorrow--or the next day. They have to live on to any one of many bitter ends.

Look closer and you'll see something extraordinary, mystifying, something real and true. We have never been what we seemed.